Page 7 of Blame it on the Bet
Such a damned fool.
I’m vaguely aware of the huffing sound that I’m making. My heart feels as if it’s going to pound right out of my chest, and my heated skin quickly turns cool and damp with sweat. I know this feeling. This is a panic attack. But I’m helpless to stop the cycle once it’s started. I pace in circles and pant, waiting helplessly for the deep-seated accusations to float to the surface of my subconscious.
I didn’t want to be a lawyer. I never wanted to be a lawyer.
I gasp and immediately stop pacing so I can bend at the waist and plant my palms on my thighs.
Breathe, Hennessy. Breathe. Slowly…
Okay. I’m okay.
I went to law school to please my father.
I gulp back a cry that threatens to rise from my throat, but I can’t keep the tears at bay any longer, and they slide in long, salty tracks down my face.
I didn’t want to leave home…but I did.
My next breath is difficult to take against the tightening of my lungs and chest.
I didn’t want to move away. I didn’t want the job.
I groan miserably and force myself to sit down again. It’s there. It’s all right there, just under the surface, where it’s been for more years than I’d care to admit. I was the dutiful child, fulfilling her father’s dream of a better life in a big city, where I could be more than just the daughter of the local pub owners. But that’s exactly who I was. Who I still am. And no amount of money, no flashy car, no swank apartment is ever going to change that.
“I’m sorry, Pops,” I whisper to my father’s picture on the desk as I swipe at my tears. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted to disappoint you. But I’m so lonely. I’m so unhappy.”
The tears have morphed into a wash down my face now, and the only thing left to do is lay my head atop my arms on the desk and sob. And then something strange happens. My mother’s voice echoes from somewhere in the dark recesses of my memory.
“Cradle to grave, Hennessy,” she says after I’ve had a fight with Jameson over a Barbie. “Your sisters are the only ones who will be with you from the time you’re born to the time you die. Not me. Not Pops. Not Grandma Elsie. Not your best friend or even the man you’ll marry someday. So you must stick together—not fall apart. Do you understand me, Henny?”
I’d nodded but still pouted in my mind, unable to grasp this concept at ten years old. But I’m not ten anymore.
I sit up straight, pluck a wad of tissues out of a box on the desk, and blow my nose in a most unfeminine manner. Then I take a long, slow, shaky breath, wipe my eyes, and start opening drawers and rummaging through filing cabinets. I pore over ledgers and inspect invoices.
It takes hours. I stay holed up in the office, no one even aware of my presence there in the back of the pub. I plow through the countless tiny, intricate jigsaw pieces until I finally have a clear understanding of just how deep of a pile of crap we’re standing in. Except, it’s more of a mountain than a pile, and by the time I return the last bank statement to the last file folder and close the last desk drawer, I know the depths to which my father went to provide for and protect his girls.
“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!” Jameson says from the doorway. I didn’t even hear her open the door. “Hey! Hey, hey…what is it? You’ve been crying!” She’s kneeling down next to my chair in a heartbeat, taking my hands in hers and searching my eyes for a clue.
“I’m okay now. Really,” I reassure her with a weak smile. “Pull up that stool and come sit with me. I’ve been going through Pops’s papers…”
“But we’ve been through all of those already, Henny. There isn’t anything there…”
“Yes, there is. Not alone, but when you put it all together, you can see the pattern. You can tell where things start to go wrong and how Pops tried to make it right. But he couldn’t. By the time he got involved with this Truitt person, he must have been desperate.”
She looks at me, her green eyes widening with comprehension.
“Wait—what are you saying? Pops knew Truitt? I thought he came into the picture after the bank called the loan. You know, to try and scoop up the property for pennies on the dollar.”
“I don’t think so,” I say softly. “Pops was desperate to leave something for us. And, more importantly, he didn’t want to be a financial burden on any of his children. He was going to sell, James.”
“No!” she squeaks in protest. “Pops would never do that! This…” She gestures at the room around us. “This was his life. His and Mama’s.”
“I’d like to believe he was railroaded or blackmailed into it, but if you follow the money, you’ll see that it was the only option he could find. Jeez, no wonder he had an aneurysm. His blood pressure must’ve been through the roof! Did you notice anything?”
She looks stunned as she pulls up the stool in the corner and sits so we’re eye-to-eye.
“He…he was preoccupied, I suppose. A little forgetful, maybe? Especially in the fall…”
I pick up the papers from The Truitt Group and wave them around.
